


"Oh, dear God..."

by Jennamatic_3000



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, John's Straight, M/M, May have to adjust the rating later, Sherlock's a tease (at least in John's dreams), Slash, Tumblr Prompt, definitely, otp prompts, that is, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4935448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennamatic_3000/pseuds/Jennamatic_3000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John begins to have, ahem, "unnerving" dreams about his flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Oh, dear God..."

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following Tumblr prompt from OTP Prompts.
> 
> "Person A won't admit, not even to themself, that they have feelings for person B. Suddenly, they start to have very hot steamy dreams about person B."
> 
> Dunno yet if I'll write more, I have a history of despairingly short attention span...

_"I've been waiting, John."_

_Turning at the deep, husky voice pitched low just to reach his ears, John stares in shock. There, on the sofa in the middle of their shared flat, is Sherlock. The tall, pale man is draped languidly over the piece of furniture, a purple silk smoking jacket hanging from shapely shoulders and pooling suggestively about his groin. But worst is his mercurial hazel eyes, smoldering with lust and scarcely-concealed impatience._

_Unable to tear his gaze away from those eyes, John clears his throat twice before he is able to speak. "Sherlock, what on Earth are you wearing? Doing!" He corrects himself quickly, growing increasingly flustered as he watches his flatmate rise gracefully from the sofa. The other man moves fluidly on long, finely toned legs, his smoking jacket leaving nary a thing to the imagination. His friend's penetrating gaze was distinctly predatory, reminiscent of a stalking jaguar._

_Slowly, Sherlock's nimble hands rise to the ribbons tied about his abdomen, taking them in hand and giving them one smooth pull. "Nothing, John," the man murmurs softly as the jacket falls open and he shrugs it from his shoulders. John's eyes follow unwillingly as the silk garment slithers down his friends pale, supple body to the floor. He inhales sharply as a scintillating tingle runs up and down his spine and heat begins to pool in his lower abdomen, coiling a hairsbreadth tighter with every step Sherlock takes in his direction._

_John clamps his eyes shut, digging up some scrap of willpower, though he can still sense Sherlock stepping closer, and closer, until he is well within John's personal space. John can feel warm, moist breath on his jaw as long fingers take his chin gently in hand. He forgets to fight as his head is tilted up and to the side and his breath catches in his chest at the feel of fever-hot lips ghosting over his carotid artery._

_"Sher-Sherlock!" He stammers his best mate's name as he is pulled flush against a lean and surprisingly muscular body. His synapses must be misfiring because suddenly his hands are gripping Sherlock's waist as the other man strokes his hand down John's scratchy wool jumper and brings it to rest over the rather prominent bulge in his trousers. Sucking in a gasping breath and wondering when he opened his eyes, John stands stock still as Sherlock cranes his swan-like neck to kiss John hungrily. He removes John's belt teasingly, flicks the button open and draws down the zip infuriatingly slowly, and..._

John came awake with a start, his chest heaving desperately as he bolted upright in sheets soaked in sweat. It took him a moment to realize that he was in his bed, and when he did he cursed in the most colorful and imaginative way he was capable of. Already knowing what he'd see, he glanced down at his lap and groaned. He'd been hoping that he was just remembering the feeling from the dream but, no. Biting down hard on a knuckle, he groaned in frustration at how achingly hard he had become in his sleep.

Cursing once more, he climbed out of bed and stomped across the hall to the loo. 'My bloody dreams aren't even safe from Sherlock -bloody- Holmes,' he thought angrily, tossing his head. A nice, cold shower sounded just the ticket, and once he had his body, ahem, _in hand_ and his reactions back under control, then he would go and kill his damned flatmate.


End file.
